Breathe
by Savage Midnight
Summary: Riddick loves her because she's perfect. Jack hates her because she's not.


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Title: Breathe  
**Author: **Savage Midnight  
**Email: **savage_midnight@hotmail.com  
**Rating: **PG  
**Disclaimer: **Any characters familiar to the Pitch Black universe belong to the creators of the film.  
**Summary: **Riddick loves her because she's perfect. Jack hates her because she's not.  
**Authors notes: **Just an idea I had for a short, stand-alone fic. I know this is a little vague but I'm sure you can manage to figure out who is speaking, and who they're speaking about.

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Close my eyes and she'll go away for a split, momentary second. Darkness will overflow and the suffocating pain will abate for a short while, just for a few, earth-shattering breaths. And there won't be this knot in my chest that seems to tighten everytime I look at her. At them. For one blessed moment there won't be any pain and I can breathe like I used to. Like a teenage girl should. If I breathe there'll be life in my veins again. Lately they seem to be tied up in tight, intricate knots; strings that weave themselves around my heart and _pull_ until I'm choking back bitter, angry sobs.

I hate her even more when my eyes and nose start stinging. I hate her for the weakness she's instilled in me, for the tension she's threaded through my muscles, the shivers she's sown into the marrow of my bones. There's always anger in my veins when she's around. Always a tempting urge to strike and--

--hand and eye coordination. My hand in her eye. My hand, with knuckles the same hot white as her eyes. God, the satisfaction. Just to hear her bones... _crack_. Nothing could be sweeter. _Nothing..._

... except _that_, maybe. Rough hands and soft lips, and I'd give up _that_ little impulse for a completely different one. Give up the violent urges for more enticing prospects. Just to taste. Nirvana. Jesus. _Won't _go there. Because going there only leads to stinging eyes and white knuckles. If I go there, _she'll _be there. She always is. There. By your side. Cocooned in arms she doesn't deserve; arms that have protected me for far longer. But she doesn't care, because I don't matter. _I don't matter_. Because he loves her. _He doesn't love you. _Oily mane and glacial eyes. Mocha skin and ruby reds. And she's just _perfect._

Lies, of course. He sees perfection through mercury eyes. Glossed over. Details forgotten. The surface bares no flaw when it is studied only in the darkness. I see differently. I see with wide, open eyes. I see without the sugar-coat glaze, and sometimes, when she thinks I'm not looking, the surface _cracks_, and the flaws start seeping through. Occasionally it's intentional. A warning. _Back off. _Her perfection is twisted by jealousy and envy. And I know. I know she's jealous and envious... of _me._ Because he doesn't look at her like he looks at me. Ironic, really, because sometimes I wish he'd look at me like he looks at her. But no. I'm content with the carefully veiled glances of affection. Content with that simple _glint _in his eyes that tells me I'm going to be here, with him, for a long time. 

But then he looks at her, and his eyes _spark. _They never spark when they look at me, and I hate her for that. And she hates me because she thinks I don't deserve those looks. She's not content with the spark and the sultry smiles.

She'll never be content until I'm out of the picture. That's her weakness. Me. I'm the flaw in her design because her little perfect life isn't safe with my keen eyes around. My eyes that spark when he walks in the room. My eyes that smoulder when he curves an arm around my waist and places an affectionate kiss on my forehead. But she knows what I crave, too. She knows my eyes smoulder in a completely different way when he curves a solid arm around her waist, sprawling his large fingers across her tanned stomach, and kisses not her forehead, but her full, ruby-red lips. 

Sometimes, occasionally, I long to be her. To be the same girl he cradles against his chest and kisses the way a girl _should _be kissed. But then my stomach turns at the thought. The thought that I would be lying, to myself, to him. And that would inevitably banish any intimacy we shared. Because without honesty there is no intimacy. I cherish that more than my fading ideals of a perfectly carved body and dangerous, full lips.

Doesn't quell the urges though. That hand-eye coordination that I'm dying to test out. I wonder if he knows she's lying to him. I wonder if he's seen past the eloquent façade yet. If not, he will. I hope. There's only so long I can wait, only so long I can dream about mocha skin painted purples, blues and yellows. Dreams have to solidify, right? Dreams, if harboured for long enough, have to eventually slide into realism?

Because I've dreamt about you for too long now. And each time it's my name you whisper, not hers. Each time it's my pink-glazed lips you're kissing, and not distant ruby-reds. And each time it's _me_ that hears you say it.

__

I love you, Jack.


End file.
